Intake outtake
May. 25th, 2009 02:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maculategiraffeI was working on the next chapter of "Intake Counselor," and this is a story Quen started to tell Hanna about his past, but I couldn't really work it out so that Quen would be willing to drop quite enough of the gory details in this particular conversation, so I decided to post it as a separate ficlet from Quen's point of view. So here you go.
It wasn't like being sold was ever fun or anything, but not having been given anything to wear except manacles and leg irons, being dumped in the back seat of his new master's car without a word, and now being dragged shuffling, still naked, through opulent rooms he couldn't take in and into a sort of enclosed courtyard with soft lush grass underfoot was more nerve-racking than usual. Quen was getting fairly nervous. The likewise naked, gleaming boy who stood there on the grass, looking at Quen with narrowed eyes, wasn't doing all that much to settle his nerves, either.
He was lithe and toned, and he shone all over with what looked like oil. He'd been on his knees, but had risen gracefully at the sight of the master and Quen, holding a little bottle of something in his hand.
"Master," he said, bowing his head.
The master shoved Quen at him, and Quen stumbled and crashed to his knees, managing not to fall on his face. The other boy knelt down next to him and pushed him over on his back, then poured something on him from the bottle; Quen squeaked faintly with surprise as strong, assured hands started to rub his naked skin without the slightest trace of self-consciousness, smearing him with-- yes, it was definitely oil.
Quen knew better than to say anything; he lay still and submissive, searching the other boy's face for any trace of sympathy or kindness, but he seemed intent on his task, indifferent to Quen's gaze. He oiled him thoroughly, paying what seemed like particular if clinical attention to Quen's cock, slathering it with oil and giving it several long, strong pulls that made Quen suck in his breath.
"What's the matter, pup?" the master asked, with an unpleasant smirk. "Not sure you're going to win?"
"I'll win, master," said the boy without looking up.
He rolled Quen over on his face when he was done with his front, and massaged oil into his neck, back, thighs, calves, and buttocks; Quen squeaked again when a finger slid dispassionately inside his asshole, oiling it as thoroughly as the rest of him, then withdrew just as swiftly.
The master leaned down, then, and unlocked Quen's manacles and shackles.
"Get up," he said.
Quen, weirdly slippery, had barely managed to obey when the other boy hit him like a ton of bricks, tackling him back down. Quen cried out in surprise and-- well-- indignation, but when he managed to get a glimpse of his master's face, the master was smiling.
Oh.
Quen was probably supposed to fight back, then.
The other boy was fairly strong, and much more prepared than Quen for this, but the oil made them both so slippery that Quen wriggled out of most of his holds. Besides, Quen wasn't exactly a weakling. It was clearly pin or be pinned, so Quen tried to pin, at the same time trying to figure out the rules of the game. The other boy wasn't scratching, or punching, or elbowing; he was just wrestling. Okay. That was probably sexier for the master to watch. Quen noted, though, that the other boy wasn't above pulling hair, or gripping Quen's wrist and twisting his arm up brutally behind his back, making him cry out again in pain and struggle desperately. He kneed the boy in the stomach, and the boy gasped and loosened his grip enough that Quen got on top again, but it didn't last long. Quen didn't like the other boy's visceral desperation to win this match; whatever he was afraid of if he lost would presumably happen to Quen if he lost. Quen guessed he was the challenger, and the other boy was the reigning champion, so along with whatever else was at stake, there was probably a slice of the master's favor in it, too.
He started struggling harder, trying to be ruthless, but it was too late. The other boy let him get on top a few times, presumably to put on a good show for the master, and then he pinned him down in a hold Quen couldn't get out of no matter how desperately-- and he was pretty genuinely desperate by now-- he kicked and writhed. Grass blades imprinted themselves on his cheek as the other boy's groin rubbed slowly, hard, grindingly, against his ass, and Quen realized the other boy was hard. So that was what happened to the loser. Quen might have guessed, really.
He felt a hot, wet tongue swipe at his ear, a sharp bite to the lobe, and then heard the low, rasping hiss of the other boy's voice, directly into his ear.
"I'm sorry," it said. "I have to."
Quen whimpered, a miserable little sound of fear and confusion, and the boy hissed again, in a voice that smacked of the direst threats and imprecations, "Yeah, cry if you can, he likes that, but relax your ass-- I'll try not to hurt you, I swear--"
Quen went limp, and the other boy smacked the back of his head, hard.
"That's right, you fucking sissy cunt," he said, louder, loud enough for the master to hear, and shifted enough that the tip of his cock-- well-oiled, thank Sif-- was pressing up against Quen's likewise well-oiled asshole. Quen sobbed out loud-- it wasn't hard-- and the other boy growled, "Don't you even think about fucking moving, bitch, your ass is fucking mine, and I'm going to--"
He leaned closer to Quen's ear again, and his voice lowered to the menacing hiss as he continued, "--try to start slow just please try to relax I don't want to hurt you I'm sorry--"
Quen sobbed again, his breath catching helplessly in his chest as the other boy slid a little further inside; it didn't hurt too badly, Quen was used to being used, but it was easy to start crying, anyway, trembling under the other boy's slick, unyielding body, as the hard cock slid deeper into him, as the sinister voice, shifting with apparent effortlessness between a register loud enough to be overheard and one of which only the tone was audible to anyone but Quen, snarling, "Fucking take my cock you little piece of you're doing great I'm sorry fucking cry for me you worthless it'd be worse for us both if I didn't do this now because you're my fucking bitch now bitch--"
He was thrusting rhythmically now, but not that hard, despite his words, and he'd started slow as promised and it really didn't hurt that much, as rapes went. The other boy came pretty quickly, and pulled out of Quen, who lay shaking on the grass as the master's voice over him said, "Well, pup, what did you think of your new bitch?"
"Went down way too easy," said the other boy's voice, dripping with contempt.
"When you wear him out, I'll get you a new one," said the master. "Take him upstairs and rinse him off, then come see me. I think you might need a little reminder of whose bitch you are."
There was a pause, and then a hard hand gripped Quen's wrist and yanked him upright so hard his arm felt wrenched from its socket. He stumbled before regaining his feet and doing his best to keep up with the other boy's purposeful stride-- into the house, up carpeted stairs, across floors. Floors were pretty much all Quen saw, until the floors went from carpet to tile, and the other boy let go of Quen's wrist. Quen looked up; they were both in a luxuriously appointed bathroom. The other boy was breathing hard, white-faced.
"I am so, so fucking sorry," he said, his voice nearly as shaky as Quen felt. "You can-- I don't know-- you can fuck me if you want, I'll wash off before I go in to him anyway. You can be as rough as you want, I deserve it, just don't tear me up if you can help it, he'll notice that and I'll get punished-- which, you probably wouldn't mind that either-- are you okay? I didn't-- tear you, or anything-- did I?"
"No," Quen managed. "You-- no."
The other boy guided him, with the same strong, steady hands that had oiled him and pinned him, into the tub, and set a couple of different taps running, producing a stream of warm water that began to rise around Quen's aching, trembling body. He himself sat on the edge of the tub, looking miserable.
"I tried to refuse at first," he said, "and he raped the other kid himself, in chains, without lube, for-fucking-ever, it was horrible, there was all this blood and screaming and-- that kid just-- didn't talk, at least to me, and now he's gone, I don't know where, if the master sold him or-- and then with the next one, I wrestled him but I lost on purpose, and then he fucked me, the other kid, and kind of-- he didn't-- go slow-- or-- and then the master-- it was really bad-- he really didn't want me to lose-- but it's no excuse and I'm so sorry and you've got no reason to believe me or care and if you want to not talk to me or whatever you want to do, I'm just--"
Quen reached out, snagged the other boy's wrist, and gave it a yank. The other boy yelped and splashed violently into the huge, filling tub next to Quen; he flinched for a moment, his hands lifting to shield himself, then let them droop limply by his sides in the rising water, as if delivering himself up to Quen's vengeance.
"It's okay," said Quen.
The other boy blinked up at him. "It is?"
"Well," said Quen, trying to be precise, "no, it's probably not. I mean, he seems-- as a master-- um, not okay."
"He's a psychopath," said the other boy. "I'm sorry about that too. That you're here, I mean. I tried to convince him we didn't need another boy, but he-- I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault," said Quen. "And you didn't hurt me, not really-- and he would have-- so that part's okay."
"It's not, really," said the other boy, "but, uh, thanks."
Quen nodded. "How long before you have to go to him?"
"I should probably wash this fucking oil off first," said the other boy, squirming into something approximating a sitting position. "I mean, if you don't mind-- me being here--"
"I don't," said Quen. "I mean, I don't have much to hide from you at this point, do I? That was a hell of an icebreaker. My name's Quen, by the way."
"Hey, Quen," said the other boy, the corners of his mouth trembling in what might have been the beginning of a smile. "I'm Jesse."
It wasn't like being sold was ever fun or anything, but not having been given anything to wear except manacles and leg irons, being dumped in the back seat of his new master's car without a word, and now being dragged shuffling, still naked, through opulent rooms he couldn't take in and into a sort of enclosed courtyard with soft lush grass underfoot was more nerve-racking than usual. Quen was getting fairly nervous. The likewise naked, gleaming boy who stood there on the grass, looking at Quen with narrowed eyes, wasn't doing all that much to settle his nerves, either.
He was lithe and toned, and he shone all over with what looked like oil. He'd been on his knees, but had risen gracefully at the sight of the master and Quen, holding a little bottle of something in his hand.
"Master," he said, bowing his head.
The master shoved Quen at him, and Quen stumbled and crashed to his knees, managing not to fall on his face. The other boy knelt down next to him and pushed him over on his back, then poured something on him from the bottle; Quen squeaked faintly with surprise as strong, assured hands started to rub his naked skin without the slightest trace of self-consciousness, smearing him with-- yes, it was definitely oil.
Quen knew better than to say anything; he lay still and submissive, searching the other boy's face for any trace of sympathy or kindness, but he seemed intent on his task, indifferent to Quen's gaze. He oiled him thoroughly, paying what seemed like particular if clinical attention to Quen's cock, slathering it with oil and giving it several long, strong pulls that made Quen suck in his breath.
"What's the matter, pup?" the master asked, with an unpleasant smirk. "Not sure you're going to win?"
"I'll win, master," said the boy without looking up.
He rolled Quen over on his face when he was done with his front, and massaged oil into his neck, back, thighs, calves, and buttocks; Quen squeaked again when a finger slid dispassionately inside his asshole, oiling it as thoroughly as the rest of him, then withdrew just as swiftly.
The master leaned down, then, and unlocked Quen's manacles and shackles.
"Get up," he said.
Quen, weirdly slippery, had barely managed to obey when the other boy hit him like a ton of bricks, tackling him back down. Quen cried out in surprise and-- well-- indignation, but when he managed to get a glimpse of his master's face, the master was smiling.
Oh.
Quen was probably supposed to fight back, then.
The other boy was fairly strong, and much more prepared than Quen for this, but the oil made them both so slippery that Quen wriggled out of most of his holds. Besides, Quen wasn't exactly a weakling. It was clearly pin or be pinned, so Quen tried to pin, at the same time trying to figure out the rules of the game. The other boy wasn't scratching, or punching, or elbowing; he was just wrestling. Okay. That was probably sexier for the master to watch. Quen noted, though, that the other boy wasn't above pulling hair, or gripping Quen's wrist and twisting his arm up brutally behind his back, making him cry out again in pain and struggle desperately. He kneed the boy in the stomach, and the boy gasped and loosened his grip enough that Quen got on top again, but it didn't last long. Quen didn't like the other boy's visceral desperation to win this match; whatever he was afraid of if he lost would presumably happen to Quen if he lost. Quen guessed he was the challenger, and the other boy was the reigning champion, so along with whatever else was at stake, there was probably a slice of the master's favor in it, too.
He started struggling harder, trying to be ruthless, but it was too late. The other boy let him get on top a few times, presumably to put on a good show for the master, and then he pinned him down in a hold Quen couldn't get out of no matter how desperately-- and he was pretty genuinely desperate by now-- he kicked and writhed. Grass blades imprinted themselves on his cheek as the other boy's groin rubbed slowly, hard, grindingly, against his ass, and Quen realized the other boy was hard. So that was what happened to the loser. Quen might have guessed, really.
He felt a hot, wet tongue swipe at his ear, a sharp bite to the lobe, and then heard the low, rasping hiss of the other boy's voice, directly into his ear.
"I'm sorry," it said. "I have to."
Quen whimpered, a miserable little sound of fear and confusion, and the boy hissed again, in a voice that smacked of the direst threats and imprecations, "Yeah, cry if you can, he likes that, but relax your ass-- I'll try not to hurt you, I swear--"
Quen went limp, and the other boy smacked the back of his head, hard.
"That's right, you fucking sissy cunt," he said, louder, loud enough for the master to hear, and shifted enough that the tip of his cock-- well-oiled, thank Sif-- was pressing up against Quen's likewise well-oiled asshole. Quen sobbed out loud-- it wasn't hard-- and the other boy growled, "Don't you even think about fucking moving, bitch, your ass is fucking mine, and I'm going to--"
He leaned closer to Quen's ear again, and his voice lowered to the menacing hiss as he continued, "--try to start slow just please try to relax I don't want to hurt you I'm sorry--"
Quen sobbed again, his breath catching helplessly in his chest as the other boy slid a little further inside; it didn't hurt too badly, Quen was used to being used, but it was easy to start crying, anyway, trembling under the other boy's slick, unyielding body, as the hard cock slid deeper into him, as the sinister voice, shifting with apparent effortlessness between a register loud enough to be overheard and one of which only the tone was audible to anyone but Quen, snarling, "Fucking take my cock you little piece of you're doing great I'm sorry fucking cry for me you worthless it'd be worse for us both if I didn't do this now because you're my fucking bitch now bitch--"
He was thrusting rhythmically now, but not that hard, despite his words, and he'd started slow as promised and it really didn't hurt that much, as rapes went. The other boy came pretty quickly, and pulled out of Quen, who lay shaking on the grass as the master's voice over him said, "Well, pup, what did you think of your new bitch?"
"Went down way too easy," said the other boy's voice, dripping with contempt.
"When you wear him out, I'll get you a new one," said the master. "Take him upstairs and rinse him off, then come see me. I think you might need a little reminder of whose bitch you are."
There was a pause, and then a hard hand gripped Quen's wrist and yanked him upright so hard his arm felt wrenched from its socket. He stumbled before regaining his feet and doing his best to keep up with the other boy's purposeful stride-- into the house, up carpeted stairs, across floors. Floors were pretty much all Quen saw, until the floors went from carpet to tile, and the other boy let go of Quen's wrist. Quen looked up; they were both in a luxuriously appointed bathroom. The other boy was breathing hard, white-faced.
"I am so, so fucking sorry," he said, his voice nearly as shaky as Quen felt. "You can-- I don't know-- you can fuck me if you want, I'll wash off before I go in to him anyway. You can be as rough as you want, I deserve it, just don't tear me up if you can help it, he'll notice that and I'll get punished-- which, you probably wouldn't mind that either-- are you okay? I didn't-- tear you, or anything-- did I?"
"No," Quen managed. "You-- no."
The other boy guided him, with the same strong, steady hands that had oiled him and pinned him, into the tub, and set a couple of different taps running, producing a stream of warm water that began to rise around Quen's aching, trembling body. He himself sat on the edge of the tub, looking miserable.
"I tried to refuse at first," he said, "and he raped the other kid himself, in chains, without lube, for-fucking-ever, it was horrible, there was all this blood and screaming and-- that kid just-- didn't talk, at least to me, and now he's gone, I don't know where, if the master sold him or-- and then with the next one, I wrestled him but I lost on purpose, and then he fucked me, the other kid, and kind of-- he didn't-- go slow-- or-- and then the master-- it was really bad-- he really didn't want me to lose-- but it's no excuse and I'm so sorry and you've got no reason to believe me or care and if you want to not talk to me or whatever you want to do, I'm just--"
Quen reached out, snagged the other boy's wrist, and gave it a yank. The other boy yelped and splashed violently into the huge, filling tub next to Quen; he flinched for a moment, his hands lifting to shield himself, then let them droop limply by his sides in the rising water, as if delivering himself up to Quen's vengeance.
"It's okay," said Quen.
The other boy blinked up at him. "It is?"
"Well," said Quen, trying to be precise, "no, it's probably not. I mean, he seems-- as a master-- um, not okay."
"He's a psychopath," said the other boy. "I'm sorry about that too. That you're here, I mean. I tried to convince him we didn't need another boy, but he-- I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault," said Quen. "And you didn't hurt me, not really-- and he would have-- so that part's okay."
"It's not, really," said the other boy, "but, uh, thanks."
Quen nodded. "How long before you have to go to him?"
"I should probably wash this fucking oil off first," said the other boy, squirming into something approximating a sitting position. "I mean, if you don't mind-- me being here--"
"I don't," said Quen. "I mean, I don't have much to hide from you at this point, do I? That was a hell of an icebreaker. My name's Quen, by the way."
"Hey, Quen," said the other boy, the corners of his mouth trembling in what might have been the beginning of a smile. "I'm Jesse."
